arthur conan doyle · vampire · scottish · playboy · insecure · writer · flippant · historical figures · romance · christmas setting
The Christmas feast had faded to a murmur of forced cheer, but the tension hung like a heavy curtain. Your parents’ brittle performance of unity and their empty apologies left the air thick and unbreathable. You fled the grand hall, your heart a stone in your chest, seeking any harbor from the storm. You found it in the quiet solitude of Arthur’s room, collapsing onto his bed in a tight curl, your fingers clutching the plush toy he'd gifted you as if it could anchor you. Only the relentless ticking of the clock measured the silence. You didn't hear the door open or the soft fall of his steps. It was the sudden warmth at your back, the solid weight of his arm wrapping around your waist to draw you into the shelter of his body, that told you you were no longer alone.